


Twenty Kisses

by catastrophage



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Burning, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Contains Spoilers from the Season 6 Trailer, Implied Mutual Masturbation, Incest, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Post Season 5, Sad Ending, Violence, When I write Violence I mean Violence, s05ep20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophage/pseuds/catastrophage
Summary: The first kiss was not wanted, not appreciated and much less expected.The last one was painful, desperate and tasted of blood.





	Twenty Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, let me conclude that since you still opened this after reading the tags... you're a masochist. I like you.
> 
> This story was written for a Hvitvar loving friend, who requested _all twenty_ kisses of a [fucked up kissing meme](https://i.imgur.com/Mwgquqq.jpg). Rather than writing twenty drabbles, I connected them to one fic. This is for you, noonesdog. I hope you like it, despite the darkness.

**Twenty Kisses**

The first kiss was not wanted, not appreciated and much less expected. It was at a time when Ivar could finally play outside, when Aslaug didn't follow him everywhere. She drank a lot, and the responsibility for Ivar's wellbeing was passed on to Ubbe, wordlessly.  
Ivar adored him. His eldest brother - tall, strong, reasonable. Almost grown up already. Whatever Ubbe did, Ivar wanted to learn it as well. He asked for some twigs to build a bow, so he could shoot arrows like Ubbe. He learned to fight with an axe like Ubbe. He wanted to wear short hair like Ubbe. And when he saw Ubbe hug and caress Hvitserk...  
What Ivar remembered really well - even months later - was the stinging pain Hvitserk's hand left on his cheek. The guilt he felt for doing it. He had given him a kiss on the lips, a peck, just like mother did when she brought him to bed. And Hvitserk had hated it.

They were fourteen and seventeen, respectively, when it happened again. The brothers were staying at the hunting hut, and Sigurd found some mushrooms, much to Ubbe's dismay. Ubbe had warned them not to try it. He had looked grim, serious. It was like he was remembering an earlier incident. But Hvitserk had laughed and stuffed his face.  
That time it was Hvitserk approaching Ivar. Sigurd had left in a hurry, and Ubbe went out after him to make sure he was okay. They were alone. Ivar could remember Hvitserk's expression. The glow of his eyes, the dark smile. How he licked over his lips, before he leaned in and reached for Ivar's head. He could remember Hvitserk's strong hand, the scratching of the thin beard he was growing. His lips – soft, warm, and greedy.

Neither of them could remember the rest of the night. Ivar had quickly taken some mushrooms as well, to ease his nervousness. Had he kissed him back? The world was spinning around, and Ivar fell down onto the furs on his bed. Or did he? Was he carried there? He could remember Hvitserk on top of him, could remember the long braids falling into his face. He didn't know what happened. But when he licked over his lips the next day, he thought he could still taste his brother on them.

Nobody had noticed them getting close that night. Even they hadn't realized what was happening. Each dealt with the aftermath on their own. Hvitserk confessed he had wet dreams often, when they were talking about girls. He never mentioned thinking of Ivar at those times. Ivar on the other hand tried to draw Hvitserk's attention. But often he just angered Sigurd. Hvitserk seemed to avoid him.

Until one fateful night in June. Ivar had agreed to go fishing with Ubbe, when Hvitserk followed them to the lake. Ubbe knew he was there. Of course he knew, he always knew where his younger brothers were, because he was responsible for them. Hvitserk sat down on the mossy ground next to Ivar, not saying anything. They just watched Ubbe stand in the shallow water with his fishing spears.  
At first it seemed to happen by chance. Hvitserk's foot touching Ivar's, his hand moving onto his brother's when he changed his position. Ivar held his breath when Hvitserk raised his fingers to his face, just to brush a spider out of his hair. Their eyes met and Ivar bit on his lips, not averting the gaze.  
Just one kiss. It was quick, quiet and innocent, at a moment Ubbe was turned away. They couldn't risk him see it.

Another year passed. The boys were all fucking Margrethe - and Ivar was about to join their ranks. The rumors amongst the brothers started the moment they left the youngest alone with her. Sigurd was joking about it, Ubbe was trying to make reason by arguing what Ivar could or could not do. "What if he really can't?" asked Hvitserk. Ubbe had shaken his head.

Sigurd heard it from Margrethe, but Hvitserk knew it from Ivar. It wasn't anything he said in particular, but when they sat together that night, just Hvitserk and him, Ivar had begged his brother to touch him. "Touch me like you touch yourself." And then he huffed, "I know you do it every night."  
Before Hvitserk could reject the idea, Ivar leaned over to kiss him. It was a soft kiss, a hot kiss. And it was so much better than with Margrethe.

\---

Soon enough Ivar was a grown man. He had led the Heathen army to avenge the death of Ragnar and conquered York with his brothers. It was Ubbe who had almost ruined their victory, Ubbe who had almost spilled Hvitserk's and his own blood, when he went to the Saxon lair to negotiate. And Hvitserk had followed him like a _little faithful dog._  
The crowd roared with laughter when Hvitserk left the room, defeated and alone. He had left Ubbe, chosen Ivar's side, but only at the very last minute. Only after betraying Ivar once before. And this was Ivar's revenge on him for his betrayal. Humiliation. _Woof woof._

Hvitserk stood at the walls of York, regretting his choice. Ivar and he might have been close, but Ubbe had always been closer. Just when he wanted to leave, to seek a place to sleep and sulk some more, Ivar joined him up there. The older inhaled sharply and looked away. Ivar's words barely reached him. _I'm sorry._  
"I'm sorry," Ivar repeated. "It was just a little fun."  
When Hvitserk finally turned his head to look at Ivar, his face was much closer than expected. Ivar's lips met his, two strong hands held him close. With all their brothers gone, no one could stop them now. "I'm sorry," Ivar whispered against Hvitserk's lips. "I love you."

Hvitserk had come to terms with his own decision soon. Ivar appreciated him, more than Ubbe had seemed to. He praised his battle skills, praised his plan to make him king. They could talk freely, without upsetting any of their brothers. They would laugh at the Saxons they defeated, they would eat together. And sometimes they would watch their prisoner and taunt him a little.

The prisoner. Hvitserk had been just as curious about him as Ivar was. He had seen him close when he had been to the Saxon camp with Ubbe. It had been Heahmund who humiliated them in front of the Saxons and, ultimately, Ivar. He wasn't sure why Ivar kept him alive, but he could sense the strength and charisma of the foreign man.  
Soon he got wary of him. Heahmund was not just a prisoner, not just a warrior. He was casting a Christian spell over Ivar, like Aethelstan had done with their father. And for that, Hvitserk hated him.

It escalated when they were in Harald's town. Hvitserk had slipped that Ivar should be king, and although he tried not to argue, he was unhappy that Ivar offered Harald to be king after him. It should have been Hvitserk... who had a right to the throne himself. Instead of being thankful for defending Ragnar's legacy, Ivar had scolded him and then praised his priest. "At least he brings me joy."  
They fought, wrestled each other and aimed punches at their faces and shoulders. It was Hvitserk who eventually pinned Ivar down to the floor, hovering over him like a wolf over his prey. "I'll do what you want, I'll fight my brothers for you – but never underestimate me."  
Then Hvitserk pressed his lips on Ivar's. Ivar bit him, but the next moment he brought his arms up and held Hvitserk close, not wanting to part from him. Those were hard times and Ivar still loved him.

Three months later the war was won and Ivar was sitting on the throne of Kattegat. The brothers were distancing themselves even further. It started with Margrethe. Margrethe who had to taunt Ivar, which cost her life. Needless to say, Hvitserk was furious. He had liked her. Tension built up, and Hvitserk had almost... almost showed his dominance over Ivar in front of the crowd. But instead he just declared: "I belong here with you, Ivar. _You know that._"  
What he said didn't sound like a declaration of love anymore. None of them would understand it so.

It really escalated when Ivar killed the seer. Hvitserk stormed into his chambers, asking him what happened. Ivar acted clueless. "What happened to the seer?"  
Hvitserk told him of the blood he'd seen. They would have to investigate it, and if the seer was killed... Ivar interrupted him. "You cannot speak on behalf of the gods, Hvitserk. Only I can."  
The younger got up from his bed. "And I will. When I choose. Understand?" 

A moment later their faces were merely inches apart. Hvitserk glanced to Freydis, who still was sitting on the bed, visibly pregnant and drunk beyond help. Nobody else would see them.  
He leaned in to Ivar. _"I know,"_ he whispered. "I know."  
Then their lips met. Ivar tasted of sweet mead, but Hvitserk didn't allow himself to enjoy the taste. He wanted control. He wanted to signal him that he overstepped his boundaries. Ivar went too far.  
In the back of the room Hvitserk could hear Freydis giggle, but he didn't care. She probably would forget what she saw, or she would think it was some funny game.  
It was not. Hvitserk raised his hand to Ivar's head and hindered him from pulling back. Then, when Ivar was starting to give in, to let the kiss happen, Hvitserk pushed him away.  
Ivar stared at him, his lips still parted. He understood the warning. If he didn't behave, Hvit would take over.

\---

The cold steel of Hvitserk's dagger pressed into Ivar's neck the other night, when Ivar had sneaked into Thora's hut. But Ivar did not waver. He could not let Hvitserk take over, and neither could he kill him, for many reasons. He had to leave. "It concerns me, that you have no proper role here. That you... live such an empty and idle life. After all you're my brother and I love you."  
Hvitserk had always been easy to manipulate, but now it seemed to get harder than before. Ivar told him about the diplomatic trip he wanted to send him on, but Hvitserk acted stubborn. "And if I... refuse? I don't want to leave Kattegat."

"I'm afraid you cannot refuse."  
Threatening to harm his girlfriend worked. The next day, Hvitserk briefly stopped by the great hall.  
He looked grim. "If you send me away, I won't come back. Not to you."  
"I know." Ivar nodded slightly. "You have to do what is right for you, brother."  
With what he really meant that Hvitserk had to do what was right for Ivar. He had to leave so Ivar could continue to rule, no matter if Hvitserk agreed with his choices or not.

"We have not been apart since the war," Hvitserk reminded him. "I have always been on your side. From the day you were born."  
Ivar shook his head. "You have been to Paris and Andalusia without me. And I have been to Wessex. We can survive without each other."  
The question was, if they wanted it. But Hvitserk was sure – if he stayed in Kattegat, he would have to bring Ivar down.

"I think it will do you good to think about your life a little. It will be a long journey," Ivar said, a sardonic smile on his lips. _Screw you,_ Hvitserk thought. He was sure Ivar would miss him rather sooner than later. He was his last real family.  
With a sigh, Hvitserk went over to his younger brother and hugged him. No matter what went wrong here, no matter which side he would choose in the upcoming war, he never wanted to leave his side. He also wanted to make sure that they parted on the best terms possible. It would be safer for Thora.

Ivar's lips brushed Hvitserk's cheek, but Hvitserk decided that would not do it. The hall was empty, Freydis was somewhere in the back of the house. He caught Ivar's lips with his own and kissed him deeply. A short, sweet kiss. It was not as emotional as their previous kisses; just a goodbye.  
For all Hvitserk knew, they would only meet again to kill each other.

\---

Years passed. Just like Hvitserk had foresaid, they fought on different sides in the next war. Ivar left Kattegat at the last moment before Hvitserk stormed into the great hall with Björn, to find Freydis dead on their bed. Ivar was gone, he went east.  
He went _far east_. And then, he found a place to stay with the Rus. He became an advisor of Prince Oleg the Seer. Never had he expected to be reunited with Hvitserk – not here, and certainly not under these circumstances.

"Dyr has fallen, but this man was in his company," the loud voice of the guardsman declared, while a prisoner in chains was brought into the hall. "He claims to be a prince as well, a son of Ragnar Lothbrok."  
Ivar quickly looked up, his eyes now fixed on the prisoner. He could barely believe what he saw. Hvitserk was at Dyr's side?  
"King Ragnar Lothbrok," Ivar corrected the guard. Now Hvitserk looked up and he seemed just as shocked to see Ivar sit next to Oleg. Inadvertently they had chosen different sides of a war that wasn't their own.

"Ivar," Hvitserk whispered under his breath. Then he repeated his name, louder, pleading. "Ivar! You know me!"  
The younger just huffed. Hvitserk changing sides so easily became tiresome.  
He broke free. The guards tried to get hold of his chains again, but Ivar raised his hand to stop them. He watched Hvitserk, who stumbled down the hall, and fell to his knees as soon as he reached Oleg and Ivar. Prince Oleg chuckled. "Is he really your brother?"  
Ivar tilted his head. His eyes were fixed on Hvitserk, on his beautiful expression, stuck somewhere between rage and fear. "Ivar," he said. "I have always chosen your side."

No – he didn't. Ivar rolled his eyes at the lie, remembering too well how Hvitserk attacked Kattegat alongside Björn and Harald. "He's not my brother," he said with a sneer. "He's a piece of filth."  
"Ivar!" the older barked, but the guards had approached him and were pulling him back by his shoulders.

Despite his words, Ivar visited him in his cell later the day.  
"I'm sorry," he greeted him, but his smile betrayed him.  
"I used to love you," Hvitserk answered dryly. His face was dirty, his clothes torn. Oleg's soldiers had seemingly kicked him to the ground after bringing him down here.  
"You still love me," Ivar countered in his usual confidence. Hvitserk took a deep breath of annoyance, but then answered – "Maybe."

They just stared at each other, Ivar with amusement, Hvitserk with barely concealed anger. In a sudden movement, the older leaned forwards, as much as his chains allowed him to. One could have thought he was going to bite Ivar, or to threaten him. But he aimed for his lips, brushed them fleetingly, before Ivar pulled back a few inches. "Yes, Ivar. I love you," Hvitserk whispered.

Ivar's breath went faster, his smile made way to a frown. "Why is it that now that you say it, I can't believe you?"  
He collected himself, before he leaned back in and caught Hvitserk's lips in an answer to his attempt to kiss him. Ivar's kiss was rough, and when he could feel Hvitserk's teeth seeking to hurt him, he reached into his hair to pull his head back. "Your place is by my side. You belong with me – your words, brother."

Hvitserk ground his teeth. Ivar's hand in his hair hurt him, and as sweet as his kiss was, he wanted to bite his tongue off. All that he had done: promising Harald the throne, killing Margrethe, the Seer, Freydis, and even sweet innocent Thora. And now it turned out he was siding with a tyrant who was just as bad as him. "Prince Dyr was right," Hvitserk hissed quietly. "It's better to be dead than to succumb to our enemy and live."

"How do you want to die?" Ivar asked, his voice dry, his hand still firm in Hvitserk's braids.  
"Kill me like you killed Thora," Hvitserk suggested. He seemed combative, moody because his attempts to appeal to Ivar's emotions had failed. He licked his lips, and explained what he thought.  
"Burn me alive, on the bodies of all the warriors you killed. I will lead them to Valhalla, as a general greater than you will ever be."

"Like Thora," Ivar repeated, ignoring Hvitserk's ambitions as a leader, like so many times before. "She was a sweet girl. I enjoyed talking to her – and then I marked her."  
He raised his other hand, revealing a dagger. Hvitserk didn't need to look twice to recognize the very dagger he had been carrying before. Even with the cold steel against his cheek, he didn't flinch. The sensation of the dagger at his skin mixed with the heat and softness of Ivar's lips, kissing him fiercely. Then came the stinging pain of a cut, and soon after the wetness of blood running down his face.  
"You marked her," Hvitserk said, a slight panting in his voice. "Did you kiss her as well?"  
The smug grin that had been gone crept back into Ivar's face – "Maybe."

He left, and he didn't return until it was the day of Hvitserk's execution.  
Dried blood stained Hvitserk's face and shirt, he had not gotten anything to eat for days. And yet he still was fierce and wild as in all the battles he fought. Now that he was pulled up on the pyre, a task for three tall grown warriors, Ivar remembered why he admired his brother. He was a real berserker.  
Ivar stood up and walked towards him. He took slow steps and with each his crutch hit the floor dramatically. Dyr's fallen soldiers were placed around the pyre, just like Hvitserk requested. The stench was sickening.  
"Just burn him already," Oleg shouted from behind. "And be done with him."  
"Or come up here and lead this army of the dead with me, brother," Hvitserk said with a raspy voice but glee in his eyes. One of the nearby warriors punched him in the face to silence him. The cut Ivar had marked him with tore open again under the force of the guard's fist.

Ivar closed his eyes briefly. He forced himself to smile, before he turned around to face Oleg and the crowd. "I have some last words for my brother. He may be a coward, a weak little rat – but he is a son of Ragnar nevertheless. He deserves to hear my farewell. And then, people of Kiev, I will set fire to his pyre myself, so you can all watch him burn!"

Under the excited roars of the crowd he continued his way. All this was planned. From the placement of the pyre, to the crowd situated in his back where they couldn't see his face. The warriors guarding the execution site were under Ivar's control, as were those who held Oleg's weapons for him. Barrels of oil and mead were placed around the plaza, but none of them contained oil or mead. The plan went well.  
Ivar leaned in to Hvitserk once he reached him, until he could smell his brother's blood clearly against the stench surrounding them. There still was so much life in him, even though he did not move anymore.  
"Do you trust me?" Ivar whispered, quiet enough that the crowd couldn't hear it. "Will you trust me with your life?" He leaned in closer and caught Hvitserk's lips in a kiss only the closest guard could see. 

Stinging pain, a constant companion of their kisses. Ivar pulled back in an instant and brought his hand up to his lips. Red stains on his fingers told him he was bleeding himself after Hvitserk had bitten him. He took a deep breath, one last glance at his brother. Then he turned around to speak to the people, while the guard brought him a torch.

"This is not just an execution, people of Kiev. It is a sacrifice to the gods and we thank them for the victory they brought upon us. With the death of my brother, the Rus will rule this land for the coming centuries, from Novgorod to Kiev. And those who will live today, will be in favor of Odin himself!"  
He stepped away from the pyre, far enough that the flames wouldn't set his clothes on fire, and threw the torch to Hvitserk's feet.

The pyre flared up. The crowd cheered and Oleg raised his horn to Ivar. Oleg, whose weapons probably already pointed at him behind his back. With a knowing smile, Ivar sat down next to him.  
"I made up my mind," he said quietly, so that only Oleg could hear him. "We might have to continue our negotiations soon."  
Then he raised his voice – "Cast oil in the flames!"

\---

Hvitserk dropped down to his knees and coughed, but the more he coughed, the more smoke he breathed in. Never before had he seen so much smoke. He groaned, because now that his legs hit the ground, he could feel his open flesh. Burns were the nastiest of wounds, he wasn't sure what had gotten into him when he suggested to be burned alive. Again he coughed, and shielded his face with his aching hands. Too much smoke.  
But the fire was gone. He must have lost his consciousness, because the last thing he remembered was Ivar, how he threw his torch onto the pyre. And then he was awaken from the masses of water raining down on him. Was it a deed of the gods? Had they saved him?

A figure made its way to the pyre, and Hvitserk could recognize Ivar even without focusing on him. The slight limp, the crutch, the slow movements. "Ivar," he croaked. His vision faded out again, but he could feel Ivar's lips on his own, could hear his voice hum some words. He reached out, a last futile attempt to stay conscious. The last thing he felt was Ivar's face, stained with his own blood.

When Hvitserk woke up, he was on a cart. Someone must have carried him away from the execution site and put him on the vehicle. Next to him was – "Ivar!"  
Ivar grinned. "Welcome back, brother."  
The younger reached down to Hvitserk's legs and he could feel the burning heat of his wounds, and then, soothing cold. "Do you remember when I grazed the skin of my knees because I always just crawled after my brothers? Or that one time when Sigurd pushed me to the fireplace and I couldn't find balance, so I burned my arm?"  
Of course Hvitserk remembered it. Aslaug had healed Ivar's wounds with honey and leaves. He carefully sat up and looked down to his legs, where Ivar applied the same technique that had helped him back in the day. 

"What happened?"  
Ivar shook his head instead of giving an answer. Then he took Hvitserk's hand and kissed the sore knuckles. He had scratched them open when he squirmed on the pyre and tried to escape the flames. No matter how tough a warrior was, nobody could endure the fire.  
"Our place is in Kattegat, not with Oleg the Fool."

"Did you save me?"  
Ivar hid a smirk behind Hvitserk's hand. "The gods did it. The gods saved you, brother."

\---

They parted again. But this time they parted in peace – Hvitserk heard Ubbe had fallen in Wessex and he was determined to avenge his death. Ivar had no feelings left for their brothers and he wanted to explore the islands west of England instead. Together they landed at York. Neither knew that they would never return to Norway. Neither could foresee the circumstances in which they would meet again.

Hvitserk touched his lips, as he watched Ivar leave the gates of York, heading west with just a small group of warriors. His other hand touched the cold stone of the city walls. He recalled the last night, when they stood here, saying goodbye. They had reminisced about their past, of the good times together, their childhood, their battles. Eventually Ivar had pushed Hvitserk against the wall and leaned against him. The kiss that followed was more passionate than any kiss before.  
Hvitserk was not sure what he felt at that moment. He still was not over what Ivar had done to him, to the people he loved. On the other hand, Ivar's lips felt good. His younger brother was very emotional, it was easy to forget his morals once he kissed him; to dive into those same emotions himself. Ivar's body against him, Ivar's hand under his tunic, and the cold wall in his back – it was as if they were teenagers again, high on mushrooms.

A few moments later Hvitserk was leaning against the wall panting and chuckling between his breaths. Ivar cleaned his hand on his shirt.  
"I'll be back, and then you'll kneel because I will be king of a new land."  
Hvitserk had laughed. He had not known how true Ivar's foreboding was.

Only months later he heard Ivar had found land and conquered a little kingdom. But Hvitserk's battle against Alfred went anything but well and he had to retreat. He sought for Ivar's mysterious kingdom of Dublin. Another month passed, before he reached the gates.

\---

They met in Ivar's bedroom. After talking for mere minutes, Ivar pulled Hvitserk down by the front of his shirt and kissed him. Almost desperately, Ivar's tongue rushed over Hvitserk's lips, but the older pulled away. "Are you sure?"

Ivar was sick, very sick. Hvitserk could see it when he entered the room. Even before that, he could see it in the grim faces of his guards, could read it in the lack of words he was greeted with. Ivar could barely stand, but neither sit down. His legs were even stiffer than usual, his muscles shaking. He was in pain, Hvitserk saw it in his eyes, even when he tried to push it away with one of his signature smiles. "You know where sick people go when they die, Hvitserk?"  
Ivar pressed a hand against his abdomen, something deep inside seemed to hurt him.  
"They go to Helheim," Hvitserk answered, slowly and quietly. Hel... a place for the sick and the old, the cowards and the weak. A place for little cripple brothers before they learned to fight. But Ivar was a warrior. He had won so many battles, even Hvitserk couldn't imagine him dying a weak death.  
"I don't want to go to Helheim," Ivar hissed and his eyes filled with tears; Hvitserk couldn't tell if they came from pain or anger and disappointment. "You have to do it."

This time it was Hvitserk leaning in to touch Ivar's lips. He couldn't watch his brother suffering, nearly crying. But what he asked him was quite much. He kissed a trail up his cheek, tasted the salt of his tears as he caught them with his tongue. "Does it really end here?" Hvitserk asked, just to make sure Ivar meant it.  
"Fight me. Help me die in battle."  
It was the only way he could enter Valhalla.

Hvitserk's breath went faster. He pushed Ivar away, back towards his bed. To fight him, to really kill him, he would have to get into the spirit.  
Nervousness rolled over him, and he allowed it, embraced it even. A rush of adrenaline, but instead of panicking, Hvitserk started pacing. He fidgeted with his leather armor, tapped his fingers on the table. He would have let out a battle cry, but he didn't want to alert the guards. He awakened his berserker as quietly as possible.

"Remember how I killed Sigurd," Ivar reminded him as soon as he noticed what Hvitserk was trying. He got up, grimacing at his stiff muscles. "Margrethe... I was the one who ordered to have her killed. I also killed the seer, with my own hands."  
Hvitserk took a deep breath and licked over his lips.  
"I killed Freydis," Ivar confessed. "You liked her, didn't you? She was a good girl. And I killed the child she carried. I don't think it was my child. Maybe it was yours?"  
Hvitserk let out a quiet whimper, still forcing himself not to scream.

Ivar coughed, and when he looked at his hand he saw he coughed up blood. He dipped his fingers in and painted red lines across his face. "I marked Thora," he said quietly, reaching for the dagger in his belt. Hvitserk bit his lips. "And then I had her burn alive. She was such a sweet, young thing."  
The first attack Ivar parried with his dagger. It would not be a battle if he didn't at least try to fight. As soon as the daggers hit each other and the rattling of steel was likely heard in front of the door, Hvitserk allowed himself to groan. He didn't fire back any words at Ivar, he didn't need to; just wordless cries.  
Ivar parried the next attack as well, but Hvitserk hit his arm and Ivar bent over. The following move he could not evade, even if he tried. Hvitserk's dagger pierced deeply into the skin of his neck. With another groan, the older pulled it out again.

Ivar's head hit the table, he had no chance to stay on his legs. As deeply as Hvitserk had been in rage, as quickly he was drawn out of it when he saw his brother fall. It was over, just like that.  
He fell on his knees and turned the body around. Ivar's lips still twitched.  
Quickly, Hvitserk bowed down and kissed them, one last time. Then he drew the dagger across his throat.

The guards didn't come in. Ivar had probably already told them what would happen. They were alone. All of a sudden, he realized what this meant. He would not be held responsible for murder. He also didn't just send Ivar to Valhalla.  
He made himself king. Ivar had planned this all along. If Hvitserk was the one to kill him, he would succeed him, both as his brother and as his vanquisher. "You little prick," Hvitserk huffed and pulled the lifeless body up in his arms. "You always loved me, didn't you?"

His lips searched for Ivar's but the warmth and softness was already fading.  
It was the last kiss. It was painful, desperate and tasted of blood.


End file.
